


Molly Scratches an Itch

by Linpatootie



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (and is as always a helpful young man), F/M, Molly has needs, PWP, Peter is basically just conveniently there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has been looking at him funny for days. Peter has a really bad feeling about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly Scratches an Itch

**Author's Note:**

> my second entry in the Foxglove Summer countdown! 
> 
> as always I dedicate this to the wonderful lady without whom I would be absolutely useless - the fair flutteringazure, who never fails to brighten my days <3 praise be, also, to her betareading abilities, otherwise I would be committing such sins like using the word 'cum' and mixing up my Victorian gowns with my Edwardian gowns (such a rookie mistake...)

_Molly had itches._

_Twitchy itches, obnoxious itches, wriggly little urges that trickled through her blood and trembled in her bones. Itches she couldn't take care of by herself, itches she had been shamed and punished for before. Itches for flesh, and skin, and breathless coming-togethers of bodies._

_Molly had itches, and there had always been people there to scratch them. Before, when the Folly was full of life, there had been keen-eyed wizards, eager errand boys, mischievous servants with roaming hands and open mouths. But now the Folly echoed empty around her, had done so for a very, very long time, and Molly... well._

_Molly had itches._

_It seemed an obvious solution to simply ask the Nightingale to do it, especially now that he was once again so young, so appealing to the eye, but he was of a different persuasion altogether. Pursuing his touch would ultimately be fruitless._

_Still, no matter._

_Molly had options._

***

I had a bad feeling about this.

Granted, Molly had the tendency to give me bad kind of feelings, but this was different. She kept eyeing me. Usually I had the privilege of being mostly ignored by her, as she spent her time soundlessly sweeping through the Folly’s corridors happily pretending I didn’t exist. For the past few days though, I hadn’t quite been that lucky. 

At first I wondered if I’d done something to piss her off. I couldn’t imagine what, as it’d been a quiet couple of weeks, considering, but you never knew. I hadn’t insulted her cooking, I hadn’t made messes anywhere, I hadn’t endangered her precious Nightingale and I hadn’t even blown anything up in at least nine days. It was a mystery, really, and it was starting to make me nervous.

“Sir,” I asked Nightingale quietly one evening, as we had just finished our dinner and Molly had disappeared with our dirty plates, “have you noticed anything off about Molly?”

“About Molly?” he’d said, raising his eyebrows at me over a half-empty glass of water. “No, can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

“She’s been looking at me funny, like she’s planning to eat me.”

“Oh honestly, Peter,” he’d said with a sigh. “If she was going to eat you, don’t you think she would have by now?” 

That was a kind of logic I couldn’t argue with, but I still found her staring intently at me from across the balcony as I made my way to my bedroom. I walked just a little bit faster.

It took another three days of intense stares for her to finally own up to what she wanted from me.

It was late, nearly midnight, and I was still up. I’d spent my day filing paperwork and practising fireballs, and was spending my evening alone, stretched out on my bed in my boxers reading _Mr. Mercedes_. Not a bad way to spend a quiet evening, even if I probably should’ve gone to sleep already. 

It was at that point that my bedroom door swung open slowly, without a sound. It was creepy. It was very creepy, especially since the opened door revealed Molly standing just outside it, her hands by her side. I wondered if she just pushed the door gently to let it swing open like it did and stood there, waiting, or if she'd somehow allowed the force of her creepiness to do that for her.

It wouldn't surprise me, honestly.

“Molly?” I said, sitting up. She didn’t respond. She was wearing a white Edwardian nightgown, with long sleeves and a wide neckline tightened with a ribbon. The thing was all ruffles and hung all the way to the floor, and it was the first time I’d seen her in something other than her usual black uniform. I could almost see the contours of her body through the thin fabric, backlit as she was by the lamp in the corridor.

I found myself wondering if she was wearing anything underneath, and then found myself wondering why the hell I was wondering about that. 

“What? Is something wrong?” I sat up, putting my book aside, and raised my eyebrows at her. She responded by stepping in to my room, and closing the door behind her.

Okay. I was now alone in my room, with Molly in a nightgown, and she was still giving me that deeply hungry look I’d been trying to figure out for the past few days. 

“This would all be so much easier to handle if you’d just talk to me,” I said, raising my hands. “What is it? What do you want from me? Why have you been following me about looking like you’re considering to pounce? Did I do something? Do I need to apologise? Just tell me what it is you want, I’m sure I’d be more than willing to help.”

And that, as they say, were my famous last words. 

She smiled, closed-lipped but still surprisingly devious, and tugged at the ribbon around the neckline of her gown. The neat little bow holding it together came undone, the neckline opened, widened, and, with a quiet rustle of cotton against skin, dropped gracefully to the floor.

She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Consider my curiosity well and truly satisfied.

It took me a moment, it really did. Molly was in my bedroom, and she was naked. She was really, really naked, and she was standing there giving me the same sort of look as when she noticed I'd tracked dirt in through the atrium. It was kind of a lot to take in.

"Uh," was the only reaction I was able to muster.

Her skin was pale, worryingly so, but fairly flawless all around. She was as thin as I’d expected, but not in an unhealthy manner. Her breasts were small but firm, her stomach nicely toned, and a patch of pitch-black pubic hair between her long legs hid her sex from view. 

She stepped out of the gown, now a puddle of white cotton on the floor, and looked at me expectantly. _And?_ she seemed to be saying, _you gonna put your money where your mouth is?_

Of course that just got me thinking about putting my mouth in places, which was a new line of thought to be having in Molly’s general direction. I found myself involuntarily licking my lips, which she seemed to take as a good sign. She stepped up to my bed and I wasn’t sure whether to scoot forwards or backwards as she did.

"Is this you trying to seduce me? Cause, cause let me tell you, this is an odd way of going about that. Buy a bloke a couple drinks first, is all I'm saying,” I gibbered. She rolled her eyes at me, took one of my hands, and placed it decisively on her narrow waist.

Her skin was warm, like everyone’s skin was warm, and soft to the touch. I wondered if she moisturised. I wondered lots of things right then, actually, to the point that I could hardly make out a single coherent thought in the flabbergasted din in my head.

She grinned, hovering over me, her hair falling down like dark curtains. I squeezed her waist and my brain just plain short-circuited. Her breasts were lovely. Her skin was soft. She smelled like lavender and castile soap. All I could think was that life was short, and weird, and she was still grinning at me.

I sat up and kissed her. 

Her mouth was warm too, like everyone’s mouth was warm, but the sharp, pointy teeth were new. She gasped into my mouth, and I pulled her close and kissed her with all the fire my still vaguely overwhelmed self could muster. I must have been doing something right as she all but melted in my arms, and pressed those perky little breasts to my chest in a way I certainly wasn’t going to protest. 

I might have been playing with my life. I might not have been. I wondered what she would have done if I had turned her down. I wondered if I would have been quite so strong, to turn down a surprisingly beautiful woman who turned up naked in my bedroom. 

I tried really, really hard not to think of what Nightingale would say. It wasn’t hard, because she was sucking on my tongue with admirable enthusiasm, and writhing on my lap, and it wasn’t like I was difficult to distract to begin with.

“You want this?” I breathed, tearing my mouth away from hers. She nibbled down my jaw and the side of my neck which, I’ll admit, made me a little nervous.

"Christ. You could at least say something,” I said. “Talk to me. A little reassurance."

She shoved her hand down my boxers, gave my hard prick a little squeeze, and smirked. "Or not," I squeaked, "or you could just do - ah! - that."

She pumped her fist up and down slowly, deliberately, and I shuddered into her and had to stop myself from whimpering a little bit. I was experiencing an odd combination of arousal and deep terror there, and I’d be damned if it wasn’t at least doing something for me.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” I asked her. She licked at my collarbone. “Is this some kind of one-time deal? You got yourself a little itch and figured you might get the apprentice to scratch it for you?”

Her head snapped up, and she looked up at me with a brilliant, mischievous, startling smile. Her eyes, already so black to begin with, were impossibly dark with desire, her pale cheeks just a touch pink. The sharp pointy teeth just finished the whole look, really.

I guessed correctly. I, apparently, lived in a universe where Molly, our monstrous man-eating housekeeper, got just as horny on occasion as every other hot-blooded Londoner, and was just about socially awkward enough to try and get some by flinging herself naked at the nearest available bloke.

I supposed I might have felt a little offended, had she not still been rubbing my prick rather nicely.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s do this, then.” 

I lifted her up and flipped her over, rolling her onto her back on my bed. She looked confused, annoyed, and amused, in rapt succession, which was about the cutest face I’d ever seen her make so I kissed her for it again.

I know, I just called Molly cute. What can I say, you start looking at people differently when they’re naked in your bed, and you’re sucking on their tongue while slipping your fingers between their thighs. 

I was surprised by how wet she was. She was really into this, then, and she keened and rocked up against my fingers as I ran them across her vulva. I broke my kiss, pressed another one to her chin, and sucked my way down her long, pale neck. She felt so human like that, her pulse under my lips, my fingers caressing her. I purposefully avoided her clit, teasing her, and she breathed heavily and shuddered. 

I grinned against her collarbone, sucked sharply enough to leave a hickey I knew nobody would ever see under that heavy maid outfit of hers anyway, and slid down to pay some attention to those lovely pert breasts of hers. 

Sucking on her nipples didn’t get me much of a response, but biting certainly did. She gasped, arching her back off the bed, her hands falling by the side of her head. Good, that. I did it again, feeling endlessly giddy about making Molly respond like that. 

I moved further down the bed, between her legs which she so willingly spread for me. She was looking down at me, breathing heavily still, and I grinned as I moved her legs over my shoulders.

“This is an odd turn to my evening, you know,” I said. “Wasn’t quite prepared for this. Full of surprises, you are.” 

She rolled her eyes at me. I might’ve giggled a bit, before moving in closer to find out what it was like to go down on a supposedly immortal monster-lady.

At least I could confirm Molly did not, in fact, have teeth down there. I licked her soft lips, tasted her slickness, and flicked my tongue across her swollen clit. I was rewarded by a sharp gasp, her pelvis bucking into me, and one hand taking a very firm hold of my hair. 

That told me I was doing a good job, so being ever diligent, I kept at it. She writhed and bucked on my sheets, and I got lost in the smell and taste of her. I slipped two fingers inside her and marvelled at her strong muscles clamping down on me so tightly it nearly hurt. She had one hand in my hair still, and was holding onto the brass bars over my head with the other so tightly I half worried she might break it right off. 

I sucked her clit, slipped a third finger into her, and was astounded as I heard Molly make an actual noise for the first time since I met her.

She cried out sharply, her voice much shriller than I’d anticipated, and I was so stunned I completely lost my rhythm. Molly was loud. Hell, screw that, Molly was a genuine screamer. I giggled nervously, and that appeared to annoy her to no end. She pushed herself up, then yanked me up by my hair, which was, to be honest, a little rougher than how I usually like my sex. 

She tugged my boxers down and pushed me back, and I realised she was done with me fiddling about and was ready, to put it eloquently, to fuck.

“I can make you come first, if you want to, don’t you want –“ I gibbered, but she shook her head and straddled me. 

“Wait! I need, we need, let me get a bloody *condom*, you impatient madwoman!” I rolled away from her to start rummaging about the small drawer by my bed. I kept way too much stuff in there, and had honestly not once in my time living in the Folly taken a girl back there. After throwing aside such useless items like a handful of pens and some random Lego I had no explanation for, I unearthed a small box of condoms. Unopened and everything, which probably made a look a lot more like a pathetic dweeb than I cared for.

A prepared pathetic dweeb, though. 

I tore the foil open with my teeth, and unrolled the condom over my prick with Molly already hovering over me, glaring at me like she was considering just offing me after all this was over. 

“Hold on, would you, Nightingale’s going to kill me if I accidentally knock you up,” I said. I’d barely tossed the empty foil packet aside before she was already on me, straddling my hips and sinking herself down onto my cock. My turn to gasp and buck – she was hot, and tight, and braced herself on my shoulders with trembling arms. 

She wasted very little time adjusting, and started rocking her narrow hips, sliding me in and out of her. I might’ve flailed a bit, unsure of what to do with my arms, before putting both hands on her waist and leaving them there. I didn’t need to steer her, or help her along in any way. Molly had her own ideas, and I was all too eager to follow. 

She rode me hard, panting and making the most delightful high-pitched noises every time she pushed me deeply inside of her. My bed squeaked in protest, the headboard banging against the wall in time with her movements. The Folly was a big place, and Nightingale’s room was really not that close to mine, but I worried that the noise might carry all the same. 

Of course, he could’ve marched in to my room with the entire bloody cavalry in tow, and I still wouldn’t have stopped what I was doing. 

Sweat beaded on her upper lip, her collarbones, and I sat up to lick it off. She whimpered, trembling, and I took the chance to roll us over. She oomphed as I rolled her onto her back, still inside of her, and wrapped her legs tightly around my waist. I started thrusting now, every bit as enthusiastic as she had been, and learned I could make the bed bang against the wall just as neatly as she had done.

It was an old bed. I hoped it would survive the night. 

She moaned and writhed underneath me, lifting her hips up to meet me. She grabbed the bars of the headboard again with one hand, and slipped the other between us, touching herself as I fucked her. I found that a tremendous turn-on, and started reciting Latin verbs in my head to try and distract myself. I somehow didn’t think she would appreciate it much if I finished before her, for some reason, and to be honest, I really did want the experience of having Molly come on my dick.

I mean, that was probably a bit crass of me, but you know. If you’re going to go in for an experience, you might as well get the most out of it.

I grabbed one of her legs and pushed it back gently, my hand on the inside of her knee. She was limber enough for it, and it allowed me to thrust in deeper. She reacted enthusiastically to it, crying out. I felt her muscles tighten around me, and knew that meant she was close to orgasm, her hand frantically rubbing at her clit.

Which was the moment when Molly gave me the surprise of a lifetime.

“Oh, fuck!” she cried out suddenly. “Yes! There! Please! Harder, you miserable bastard!”

It wasn’t the fact that she had just said actual words. It wasn’t the fact that she was calling me names, or cussing like a drunk, badly tattooed sailor, or even that she’d genuinely uttered the word ‘please’.

It was the small matter of those words coming out in a thick, recognisable Dublin accent.

Molly was Irish.

I was astounded. She chose that moment to orgasm spectacularly, and had she not still been cussing me out in the most unexpected accent of all time I’d have sputtered into orgasm myself right along with her. As it was I was far too distracted listening to her, fucking her so hard I really was doing some irreparable damage to my bed.

She screamed, threw some gibberish my way I really couldn’t understand but which was probably deeply insulting to my manhood, and up and tore one of the brass bars right off my headboard. She was so tight, her muscles clamping down on me so hard I could barely keep going, but go I did.

She tossed aside the brass bar, grabbed me by the shoulders, and drew me close. Her lips on my ear, her fingers raking down my back, I let go and came too, deep inside of her. She was almost gentle as she coaxed me through my orgasm, legs wrapped around my waist once again, if more loosely this time. I struggled to catch my breath, riding it out, and together we collapsed boneless on my bed.

The afterglow was, simply put, weird. 

I fiddled about getting rid of the condom. She looked bored and annoyed. I cuddled up to her. She looked bored and annoyed. I kissed her, giving her more tongue than I usually would. She looked less bored, but still annoyed.

I fell asleep with my face on her chest. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. 

The only proof I still had that it had actually happened was my damaged bed, the brass bar she had so deftly broken off my headboard sitting on the floor halfway across the room.

It was very early still, and breakfast wouldn’t be ready for at least another two hours. I sighed, scratching my head, and went in search of a long, hot bath.

***

When I came into the breakfast room, freshly bathed, trying really hard to think of something to say in case Nightingale brought up hearing some rather incriminating noises somewhere through the night, I was stunned to find a breakfast buffet big enough to feed the cast of Les Mis. 

There were the usual scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast, but also kippers, baked tomatoes and beans, an actual assortment of different kinds of hearty breakfast pies, and a truly astounding number of puddings and cakes. I spotted a chocolate cake, something that looked like raspberry, at least two Victoria sponges, and one unnecessarily elaborate Bundt cake with dried fruit and chocolate drizzled all over it. It appeared that Molly had spent the entire night baking, and I had to admit that, after a night of unexpected strenuous activity, my stomach growled appreciatively at the sight.

In the midst of it all sat a fairly bemused Nightingale, eating some kippers with baked beans. A plate of scones sat next to his elbow. 

“I have no idea what happened,” he said as I sat down, looking as innocent as I could muster, “but I found the breakfast room like this when I came down this morning.”

“I guess she felt like cooking something nice for us,” I tried, pouring myself a coffee from a nice blue coffeepot sat in the middle of the table.

“It looks like she couldn’t decide what to make for today, and just made everything in the cookbook. Honestly, I’m tempted to give Abdul a call and invite him over. It’d be a shame to let all of this go to waste.”

As I buttered a bit of toast and wondered how many things I could taste before passing out into a food coma, Molly swept into the room. She was carrying a tray full of muffins, what looked like American pancakes, and, for some reason, a basket of hard-boiled eggs. She put everything on the table as Nightingale looked on, one eyebrow raised.

“Molly,” he said carefully, “you do know it’s not a holiday, right?”

She looked him dead in the eye, placing one muffin right onto his plate, and smiled.

He looked utterly intimidated by it.

She inclined her head, and swept out of the room again. She didn’t even give me as much as a glance, but she didn’t have to.

“I don’t know what put her in such a good mood,” Nightingale said, “but I can’t help but wonder if we ought to all be scared.”

I grinned into my coffee, and found I just could not resist. “Hey, sir?” I asked. “Did you know Molly is Irish?”

I’d never seen the good man so earnestly confused.


End file.
